The sea was crusty that day, my friends. Almost as crusty as the crusty hate on the old man’s haggard and bitter face. He came from the Crust-ation period.
He woke up angry and angrily cleaned the crust from eyes. He then reached for his underwear that was, well, at this point it doesn’t really need to be said, does it?
For breakfast he noshed on a crusty piece of bread and only the crust of a piece of pie.
His crusty toes tickling crusty sand, he staggered across the beach until crusty waves engulfed his feet. He raised his crustily clenched fist and shouted, “It is I, the saloa! Here I am!! Come and get me if you dare!”
Just offshore sharks with crusty teeth smiled and waited…
I live smack dab in the middle of the country, but I always seem to end up at the beach. But I never get more than my toes wet, because I am afraid of sharks and all of the strange beasties that lurk beneath the waves. Those sharks with crusty teeth are waiting for me…
I wasn’t afraid of the sharks that day. The water was cold. Damn cold. I went in to depth of about two inches or so and called it quits. The sunsets were nice, though. And the mojito. I felt the spirit of Hemingway take hold and this piece of Flash Friction was the result. I like to think it is similar to what Hemingway would have produced if he had been forced to write using only a tiny contraption called an iPod and only one finger.